Pertinent stats: Since last I’ve seen this man, he has turned another year older and also, he has cut his hair, which he felt compelled to tell me over text. Kinda sweet, if I weren’t a crotchety old bitch who gets itchy every time he texts me because he is CLEARLY into me and I’m not sure that I’m feeling it at all. But on the other hand, it is nice to have someone to chat with and I’m not proud of myself but I’m definitely prolonging the texting by responding and keeping it going even though I’m not super into it. Because ego trips are the cheapest vacations!
Beardliness: Still nada.
Date itinerary: He suggests we go out to the Santa Monica pier and walk around some evening. I presume this means make out by the water. I say sure. A big body of water would be enough to get me wet, right? Not even sorry about that one, yes I am gross. I’m only mildly dreading it as the day approaches, woohoo? He suggests coming to pick me up and I don’t LOVE this idea but also, there is the possibility of maybe, if the date goes well, making out in his car. I apparently have a car make out fetish.
Recap and highlights
Tie yourself down to whatever chair you’re sitting in, because this blog post is going to be a long fucking ride. He shows up to my apartment complex and he looks quite nice although he’s overshot it by about two blocks–which should’ve been my first clue about his navigation skills but I’m too busy wondering if he’s going to go in for the kiss first thing to fully register this. He does not. Instead, he goes in for the full body hug/holding me, in the middle of the street, and caps it off with a nice little groan in my ear. No, God no, no thank you, forever no thank you. “Holding” me should not be the sexual thrill of your year. I kind of shudder-laugh and leap away from him towards the car–“SO WHICH ONE OF THESE IS YOURS, SERIOUSLY, WHICH CAR?”–and I have to guide him out of the middle of the road, because he’s walking down the middle of the street like a small child. Zero court awareness. Already wishing I’d agreed to just meet him there.
We get to his car and as he turns on the sound system: Christmas fucking carols. In April. Celine Dion Christmas carols. Suspiciously like what a serial killer would listen to on a second date. We both sit there for a moment in silence before I go, “Favorite holiday?” He just kind of laughs and turns it off, which really, when you think about it, is not an answer to anything that needed answering there at all. This is the only moment on the date when I feel like maybe I should be concerned for my personal safety, but eh, the waves are pretty at night, it’s been a good 27 years, let’s press onward.
He refuses to listen to either his GPS or me so it takes us 45 minutes to go 13 miles with no traffic on the freeway. It doesn’t help that he’s going 30 on the freeway. I should not make fun of someone’s driving skills but frankly I wanted out of that car so badly that this is what I am doing with that energy. Also, he’s an LA native, how did we miss the 405? I finally ask him what his plan is and he says he “knows a back way.” Refrain from saying, “This is not the way to know my back way, my good man.”
We finally park, a million minutes later, and I’m feeling a little bad for him because he’s clearly feeling self-conscious about how long it took us to get here. But it also doesn’t help that at some point, he asks me if I’ve ever run a red light. No, I say, although I’ve occasionally made the executive decision to cut it real close on a yellow. He tells me he accidentally runs red lights all the time. Oh good! I’m so happy to be in this car with you.
As we walk toward the pier, I uncover the following nuggets about him:
- He hates sushi.
- His favorite restaurant is Panera Bread, but it’s “so overrun by hipsters now.”
- He is really into David Grohl. That is not that man’s name.
- He doesn’t know what LACMA stands for, or is, and he says “no one local calls it that any way.”
Yes, I know I’m an evil cunt. Probably I do not ever want anyone to collate all the stupid shit I say and write it on a blog somewhere and I’ve got a big karma kick in the face coming but I can’t quite care enough to not include these nuggets.
He’s reading me really wrong–I’m definitely being more authentic about my interest gauge after the whole Christmas carols debacle because if you’re about to be murdered, might as well go out swinging. He asks me if I know any trans people and when I answer positively and in the affirmative, he launches into an anecdote about this guy he sort of maybe met once who has now transitioned into a woman and isn’t that weird? No, I say, I don’t think it’s weird at all, good for her! And by the way, my panties just snapped closed with an iron lock.
He buys me pizza and a bottle of water and I try to avoid eye contact as we’re eating because all he wants to do is stare at me while he chews and that is fucking weird. We wander up and down the pier and he’s getting more and more touchy, trying to establish a physicality with me, and I’m flinching every time he touches me. You guys, is this how love feels?! The touching is getting to be, frankly, a little odd. For example, we’re staring out at the water–don’t make eye contact, KBM, don’t make eye contact–and he physically grabs my head at one point to turn it to look at something he wants to show me. Well thank God; this neck can turn only when a man cranks it! Bless you, sir. Another time, he grabs my hand and uses the back of it to stroke his face.
Not a move I’d like repeated any time soon.
I successfully avoid kissing him–listen, I have kissed plenty of guys I wasn’t into in the past, but I’m trying to be a little more Accountable these days, I can tell he’s into me and all I want to do is go home so I’m not gonna do it if I can help it–by suggesting we go play SkeeBall. I give him a dollar in quarters and he can’t figure out how to use the machine. The machine eats all his quarters. Fella, that sounds like a YOU problem. YOU ARE 34.
I decide to end the evening after that and I can tell he’s disappointed but I don’t really think it would’ve been kinder of me to prolong this. We get back to the car and he can’t figure out how to use the parking machine. I have to take the ticket from him and insert it. So, like, sex wouldn’t have been any good anyway, right? YOU ARE 34.
I think it’s pretty clear when we part, for us both, that this is the end of the road.
Price tag: He spent about $30 I’d say for both of our dinners. I spent $3 on parking and SkeeBall.
Grade: You know what, I’m not going to grade this one. I’ve already been mean enough.
Bottom line: Hella nope. But I will say, there is something empowering about knowing exactly how I feel about this guy, even if it’s not positively. That is something I struggle with. Ambivalence FOR LIFE!!